The Halloween Party
by XistentialAngst
Summary: Sherlock and John attend a Halloween party on the trail of a vampire killer - a man who's been seducing his victims and taking all their blood. Sexy costumes, bad puns, hideous danger, frantic sex in hidden place and some Halloween-flavored fluff are all on hand to "treat" you. Boo.
1. Chapter 1

_**AUTHOR'S NOTE: Halloween is my favorite time of year, and there just aren't enough Halloween johnlock stories - so I decided to write one. I'm expecting 3 chapters and hope to have them all up by All Hallow's Eve. Enjoy, my pretties!**_

_**Thanks to my wonderful beta, Quinn Anderson, for her spooky-good editing skills! XA**_

"Would you like to attend an All Hallow's Eve party with me, John?"

John was still in the process of making morning tea and not fully awake. For a moment, he carefully considered the laws of time and space, as was always wise when it came to Sherlock Holmes. John was in his robe and pyjamas, and his bare feet were cold against the kitchen floor. Not a dream then. And it was October 25th so a Halloween party wasn't completely out of the question.

John glanced at his flatmate, stifling a yawn. "It's either Mycroft or a case. You look pleased about it, so Mycroft is right out then."

It was true. Sherlock's eyes were alight with maniacal glee of the sort he only got when engaged with the criminal element. The detective granted him a ghost of a smile. "And people say you're not intelligent."

"What? Who says that?"

"I do."

"Ha bloody ha." John put tea bags into the boiling kettle. "If you want me to do you a favour, you might lay off the insults until I agree, yeah?"

"You can't possibly refuse." Sherlock's voice positively purred with excitement. "It's a serial killer, John. A _vampire_!"

John gave Sherlock a glower from under eyebrows that said _you're taking the piss_. He shuffled his feet on the floor just to be sure it really was cold, and he really wasn't dreaming.

"Care to explain that, Van Helsing?" John quipped as he added sugar to Sherlock's tea and slid it to the man. He headed into the living room.

John sat in his chair while Sherlock paced. He was wearing his red dressing gown, a T-shirt and pyjama bottoms, and he was wound up with an energy John had rarely seen him exhibit at seven o'clock in the morning. Sherlock had likely not slept at all the night before then.

"Three dead bodies in the past two months, all drained of blood."

"Is that the case you've been working on?" John knew Sherlock had been engaged in something the past few weeks, but there'd been a rash of severe flu at the clinic, several doctors out, and he'd hardly been home.

Sherlock waved a hand in an impatient 'of course' gesture. "The victims were all found in hotel rooms, but no leads on the killer. He uses a false identity, and he's good at disguises. His victims are random, so there's been nothing to lead us to him."

John sipped his tea. "How does he get them to a hotel room?"

"In your vernacular, he's 'pulling' them," Sherlock said. "He must be good looking. And clever."

"Vampires are like that, yeah." John said flatly. "Mesmerising eyes, that whole 'thrall' business. Maybe he's turning into a bat and flying out of the hotel."

Sherlock looked at John as if he'd grown a second head. "As a medical doctor, you should know that there are actual psychotic compulsions to drink blood, even eat human flesh. Such conditions do not, however, enable one to transmogrify into a bat."

"Sorry," John said contritely. "Obviously, there's a lot at stake."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed suspiciously.

"So, how do you know Dracula will be at this Halloween party?"

Sherlock waved a hand toward his laptop. "I started trawling forums for blood drinkers. It's quite the subculture, you know. Fascinating, the aberrations the human mind is capable of."

"You can say that again," John said.

"What?"

"Oh, nothing." The laptop was open and John couldn't resist leaning over to take a peek. He sputtered. "Your user name is _absolutely edible_?"

"Well I _am_ trying to lure a vampire," Sherlock said pointedly.

"So, you've done it then? Tracked him to his lair?" John asked with a smirk.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "This man has killed three people, John. You might consider taking this a little more seriously."

"I am serious. Undead serious," John said, with a flat expression.

Sherlock huffed and stomped over, leant in to grab the lapels of John's robe with both hands and glared at him with an expression of exasperation that John knew was entirely manufactured. John returned the look with a quirked brow.

And suddenly felt a pool of heat slide down his chest, from approximately where Sherlock's hands were fisting his clothes, to his groin. He bit his lip.

"I can pick up some garlic pills at the clinic," he suggested softly. "They're used for arthritis."

Sherlock's fake annoyed expression melted into one of genuine amusement. He huffed a laugh and grinned_. Ah, there._ Jesus, John lived for those smiles. Wrapped around this man's little pinky? Yup.

For a moment, Sherlock looked at him with a half-fond, half-incredulous look, the one that said, _You amuse us, John Watson. His Royal Highness is pleased_. John pulled himself back slightly. It was a bit too warm a look for him to take at this proximity. Sherlock's hands slipped from his lapels, and he straightened up, resumed his pacing.

"So, you've arranged to meet someone from the forum, someone you think might be the vampire-slash-killer, at a Halloween party? Can't you just trace him through his login?" John asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "His user name is 'dark temptation' but he's been very clever about hiding his electronic trail. Besides, I have no evidence that he's the killer. You know how picky the police are about _that_."

"Yes, the fools," John said dryly.

"Unfortunately, I need to catch him in the act."

"That bites."

"John!"

"Right. So... am I the bait or the back-up?"

Sherlock swept a gaze over John. "You're not his type. No, I'm the bait. Absolutely edible, remember?"

John considered this. "So what is his type? Tall, skinny, hideously intelligent detectives?"

"Slender. Androgynous."

"You're not—" John hesitated with a frown, "particularly androgynous."

Sherlock gave him a withering look. "Oh, really, John? Well, I will be _particularly_ androgynous in my costume."

Several possibilities flashed through John's mind, each one growing increasingly lewd. "Yeah? What are you going as?" He kept his tone deliberately neutral.

Sherlock gave him a knowing smirk. "You'll have six days to wonder about it. The party's on the 31st."

"Why would I spend time wondering what you're going to wear?" John huffed.

Sherlock didn't answer.

John cleared his throat. "Really, Sherlock, I don't care, as long as it won't get us arrested. But what about me, then? Should I piece something together?"

"Patently, no," Sherlock said firmly. "The mind recoils in horor at the thought. No, John, _I_ will get your costume."

Possibilities flashed through John's mind once more, and they were not pleasant ones. He'd probably end up as a red-faced lobster with dangling fuzzy limbs or a pole dancing fireman. "Uh, no thank you."

"John, even you must concede that I have much better taste in clothes than you do."

"Says the man who went to Buckingham Palace in a sheet."

Sherlock stood in the centre of the room, arms crossed. "First, this is an exclusive party and a professional costume is mandatory. Second, I'm getting the costumes free from an ex-client, and I won't know what's available until I get there. And third, you have the fashion sense of a hibernating marmot."

John ground his teeth. "Fine. But nothing slutty and nothing ridiculous. I'm warning you. I have the makings of a hobo costume in my closet and I _will _use them."

"Trust me," Sherlock said.

Two more ominous words were never spoken.

**& B &**

John stood in a towel, looking down at the pieces of a costume laid out on his bed. There was a black half mask that covered the eyes and an impressive black satin cape with red lining. So far, so good. There was a white long-sleeved shirt, ruffled down the front. It was V-necked and open where the top four to five buttons should have been in any reasonable shirt. It was also a bit on the thin side. There was a red satin sash. There were black boots in a rather piratey style, with fold-over tops. There was a stage sword made of painted wood. And then there were the breeches. They were beige-ivory and made of a dense, stretchy material that looked expensive. They were… exceedingly tight. They were nearly hose.

But there were _pirate boots_. John decided to at least try it on. He took off his towel and looked askance at the breeches.

_Damn, I look good,_ John thought. As in _really good_. It was true that the breeches were something he would not normally be caught dead wearing in public. Yet, looking in the mirror, he had to admit they were flattering. His thighs had always been very muscular, since rugby days, and they were still in shape from all the chasing through back alleys he did with Sherlock. The breeches clung to them like a second skin, accenting their rounded muscularity. The breeches were thankfully a little fuller in the crotch, with a double-breasted button style that lay flat against his lower abdomen. Nevertheless, the word 'package' came to mind when he looked in the mirror. They were definitely more revealing of that particular area than he was accustomed to. The breeches went to just below his knees, fitting inside the pirate boots. On his back, the cape went down to his mid-thighs in a dark and dramatic swoop.

He couldn't resist turning around and lifting the cape to get a look at his backside. Hum. Too bad this trouser style was outdated. It really did him a world of favors. He'd been right to forego the pants. They'd be clear as day under this outfit. The unusual sensation of the breeches against his bare skin felt a little bit naughty.

Well, hell, it _was _Halloween. And he'd be wearing a half-mask. Might as well have some fun.

Nevertheless, he went downstairs prepared to give Sherlock some guff about the breeches. It was a kind of game they played about how modest John was. It was an exaggerated one, as far as John was concerned, but it wouldn't do to lose his reputation.

He stepped into the living room, the sentence already coming out of his mouth, "I told you nothing slutty and these are –"

He'd forgotten that Sherlock would be in costume too and that he ought to brace himself for that.

He forgot what he was going to say.

He forgot how to breathe.

Sherlock was standing near the window looking out. And oh, dear god. What the hell was he wearing?

Or _not_ wearing, rather?

Holy mother of God.

Sherlock was dressed, or rather, _painted_, as some kind of faerie creature. The lights in the room were out. Only the glow from the kitchen doorway and the illumination from the window broke the darkness. As Sherlock stood at the window, surrounded by shadows, he looked for all the world like he was on stage. He wore only a kind of rustic fabric shorts (small enough to be bordering on loin cloth) stitched up the sides with heavy twine, and a diaphanous, transparent vest that hid nothing underneath. The rest of him, acres and acres of skin, was painted a silvery blue and decorated with hand painted vines along his sides. The paint continued onto his face, accompanied by what looked like glitter in magical swirls and something dark staining his lips. And his hair – it was stiff with gel, so heavy it gave the black locks a slightly greenish tinge. It was molded up into artful spikes and twists, straight up and off his face, emphasizing the alien beauty of his bone structure - the sharp cheekbones, the firm nose and jaw, his long neck.

Jesus, he was beautiful.

John stood in the doorway and felt himself get hard. He had a sickening realisation in his gut that there was no way he was going to make it through tonight without revealing the secret desire he was carrying around inside. He might as well have a neon sign over his head that was flashing "Want you desperate want you desperate" because there was no way he could keep it from being written all over him – in incontrovertible and bulging proof.

_Bugger._

Sherlock turned to look at him. He smirked. "The dashing Dr. Watson," he said ironically.

For a moment, John was confused that Sherlock didn't seem to, well, _notice_, and then he realised he was backlit in the light from the hall – Sherlock couldn't see his reaction.

Sherlock did a full circle in front of the window, holding out his arms.

Dear God, what those shorts did to his fine arse, and oh the bare line of his hamstrings, the curve of his back…

"What do you think?" Sherlock asked. "My ex-client is a costume director for the Globe. She painted me herself. Do you recognize it?"

"Satan?" John joked, his voice coming out rough, because John was certainly going to hell for what he was thinking.

"Don't be stupid, John. I'm not_ red_. It's Puck from Midsummer Night's Dream. The Globe did it last season."

"Ah. You, uh, really going out like that? In public?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I'll wear a coat over it until we get there. I'll hardly be the most daring at this party, I assure you."

John guessed there wasn't much he could say about his breeches then.

So, he didn't say anything.

Sherlock frowned, obviously expecting more of a response. He strode closer to John. "Well? Is it… _particularly androgynous_?"

There was nothing androgynous about that deep baritone. John took a step back, which took him into the hall and thus into the light. For a moment he panicked, then he remembered the cape. He swept it forward dramatically so that it covered his chest and groin.

"It's… nice."

But suddenly Sherlock wasn't paying attention. His head was cocked to one side (Jesus, was he even going to _act_ like a member of the fae tonight?) and he was looking John up and down with interest.

"Oh, brilliant," he breathed. "The Scarlet Pimpernel. I knew it would suit you."

"Is that what it is? I thought maybe Dread Pirate Roberts."

"Who?"

"Never mind."

Sherlock looked for a long moment at the boots, then his gaze moved slowly up to John's masked eyes. John had no idea how to pull off a 'scarlet pimpernel' expression so he settled for going blank.

Sherlock's very long, very blue fingers tugged at the front of the cape, where John held it tight.

"No," John said.

Sherlock glanced up at his eyes in disbelief. "But I want to see it!"

"You will when we get there," John said firmly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Dear God, your modesty. I don't know how you ever manage sex."

His voice was dripping with sarcasm. John wanted to say _I'm managing it right now, inside these skin-tight breeches_, but he didn't. Sherlock walked slowly around him. John tried to keep his eyes facing forward.

"Yes, it'll do," Sherlock said as he reached the front again. He tilted his head once more and looked into John's eyes. His expression was… deducing, a bit too keenly at that, but also something else… appreciation? Attraction? Ah, the lure of wishful thinking.

John swallowed. Without having the slightest intention to, he said: "It's bloody gorgeous."

Sherlock blinked at him in surprise.

"The, um, paint job, I mean," John explained.

Sherlock pursed his lips thoughtfully.

John's eyes dropped (he couldn't help it, and anyway, he was shorter than Sherlock) from Sherlock's face to the tight expanse of chest, wiry and tight but well-muscled and with surprisingly (_dear lord_) pouty nipples, then down to his stomach, which had a lovely thick tautness that John wanted badly to stroke, and a shallow 'inny' bellybutton that John had an urge to run his tongue into. The paint job had an airbrushed effect, more silvery towards the center and darker blue on the sides of the body, making Sherlock look even leaner, almost inhuman.

His legs were hairless under the paint. John wondered idly if the make-up artist had shaved them. Christ, they went on for miles.

John's hand clenched at his side with the effort not to touch. "I've never known anyone who had the body to pull off something like this. Except you," John said. His voice sounded a little shaky.

_God, Watson, just. Stop. Talking!_

"Ah," Sherlock said.

He looked confused for a moment. Then his eyes flickered down, for only a second, to the spot where the cape prevented John from being pornographic, and then back up to John's throat, in which no doubt a vein or two was visually throbbing and/or he was flushed. Sherlock wore an intense, 'observing the evidence' stare.

_Fuck._

"So! We're off then?" John said, turning for the stairs. "Shall I take my gun?"

"No," said Sherlock. "They'll have security scanners on the way in. I'm afraid it's down to wiles and fists tonight."

And, like that, things were back to normal.

**& C &**

They caught a cab easily. Even though Sherlock had his long coat on over most of his body, his face was still a sight to see. John caught the cabbie looking in the rearview mirror repeatedly.

He sighed. It was going to be a long night, John watching everyone at the party watching Sherlock, trying to chat him up. It was like going to an AA meeting with a 6 foot bottle of whiskey.

"So, what's the plan?" John asked.

"I find my suspect and attempt to seduce my way into his hotel room. You mingle and keep an eye on us. If I don't emerge from his room within… let's say fifteen minutes, you intervene."

"Fifteen minutes? With a serial killer? You could be dead ten times over by then!"

"One can only die _once_, John," Sherlock remarked drolly. "Anyway, his attacks are always post-coital. He drugs his victims, probably giving them something to eat or drink after sex. Once they're out, he drains their blood. They never feel a thing."

"_Post coital_? Don't tell me you'd… you wouldn't…" John felt his blood pressure climbing.

Sherlock flicked annoyed eyes his way. "Don't be ridiculous. You know how well I can prevaricate. Besides, I'm not his usual victim. He thinks I'm 'absolutely edible', someone who gets off on letting others drink my blood. Sex won't be necessary. I'll offer him an arm, get him to take his gear out. His _gear_ is what I need for proof. He's got to use some kind of tubing, a pump, in order to extract all the blood from the bodies. Perhaps canisters to take it away. There's no evidence that it's flushed or poured down the drain."

"This is a _really_ bad idea," John muttered.

"He _drugs_ them, John," Sherlock scoffed. "Very likely he has no idea how to fight and isn't in shape to do so. All I have to do is not consume anything he gives me. Don't worry."

John tamped down the strong concern he had, knowing Sherlock hated it when he mollycoddled, especially when it came to Sherlock doing his job.

"I'll be right outside in the door listening," John said. "If anything goes wrong, you're to yell. Like a banshee. Like a bloody little girl. I mean it, Sherlock."

"Obviously," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes.

John still couldn't help but wonder how far Sherlock planned to take the seduction, especially with another man. It wouldn't be the first time John had seen him do it, but he never liked it. It would be far worse tonight, now that John felt as he did and Sherlock _looked_ like _he_ did tonight.

He was really going to have to keep a grip.

"So, what does this guy look like?" John asked.

"I don't know," said Sherlock. "He said he'd be dressed as a 'Romanian Prince' – dully predictable. Also, that if I didn't know him on sight, I wasn't serious about what I thought I wanted. "

John looked at Sherlock with a frown. _What is that supposed to mean?_

Sherlock shrugged. _No clue._

John hoped very much the guy turned out to be a Renaissance Faire geek.

John's desire for Sherlock had come on very slowly. It was not until after they'd lived together for over a year, after Irene Adler had whispered her carnal implications in his ear, after one too many times of people acting as if it were obvious that John was in love with Sherlock – or, occasionally, that Sherlock was in love with John, that John was finally forced to really think about their relationship. Harriet, Mike Stamford, Molly, Lestrade, bloody _Mycroft,_ for God's sake, who was never wrong about anything- they all conspired in the 'so when are you two geting together' club of well-meaning busybodies.

He still remembered the day Mycroft had kidnapped him for coffee and said, as if remarking on the weather, _You realise of course, John, that my brother is in love with you. And furthermore, you return the sentiment._

He'd denied it at the time. But eventually, well, even John Watson could only be so dense.

Finally, he'd had to seriously consider it, pondering over everything he thought he knew about the entity known as Sherlock-and-John.

A few things were obvious: he would do anything for Sherlock, and as annoyed as he sometimes got with the man, John could not seriously imagine himself existing outside of 221B. He felt very pleased and proud to be the one friend Sherlock Holmes had, the one person Sherlock respected (a bit), the one that 'humanised him' that little inch, the one he did not dismiss in distain. Even when Sherlock was at his most caustic, John adored the brilliance of his mind, loved the insane posh intelligence in every text message, the things he just _knew_. He never knew he was so attracted to intelligence, but he was. He even liked Sherlock's childishness and self-denying nature. It made him want to take care of Sherlock, keep him well, make him smile. If he were completely honest, he was even secretly pleased about the possessiveness Sherlock displayed when it came to John's dating. The cock blocking had always been frustrating, but he supposed he'd put up with it because he was secretly flattered and pleased that Sherlock wanted him around all the time.

Of course, putting it like that, it _was_ love, undoubtedly. But was it a purely platonic love, as he'd always insisted, _believed_, it was? He _had _been in the military. He knew the kind of bond two brothers in arms could feel for each other. As deep as those could be, it had never been _this._

So, he had imagined, for about a week, various strange, uncategorized aberrations of the human mind, things like non-sexual soul mates and life-long sibling-like partnerships. He'd even googled around the internet looking for cases of two people who had incredible two-halves-of-a-whole relationships that did not involve sex (he couldn't find many).

He'd worried about what it meant for him ever having a sex life again, since his commitment to this relationship made it very difficult to date women.

And then one day, he'd just been sitting at the kitchen table, and Sherlock had looked to one side into a haze of light coming from the window. The golden motes had danced on his lips, his neck, and, from nowhere, lust had slammed into John like a 50-tonne lorry.

So. Not platonic then. John realised that all the symptoms had been there. He was, in fact, _in love_ with Sherlock Holmes, maybe had been from the day he'd met him, and the only thing that had kept him from wanting a physical relationship was that his own world view simply didn't allow for such a possibility – that he could want a man. Then, suddenly, a switch flipped, and he did.

Since that moment, it had not spared him. Now the only thing that prevented John from acting on it was that Sherlock had never expressed an interest in a sexual relationship on any kind, not with anyone. John thought it was highly possible that Sherlock was asexual.

And now he was a 6', mostly naked, blue-painted, gorgeous asexual who would spend the evening trying to seduce a Romanian Prince while John had to watch.

Sometimes John Watson seriously wondered what he had done in a past life to deserve this.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Author's Note: **_

_**In which John and Sherlock attend the Halloween party, and John meets up with a world-dominating lizard with sage advice, a black cat and a sexually assertive vampire. The drinks are red, Sherlock is blue and John is about to get his fondest wish in the weirdest way possible. BAMF!john and smut alert.**_

_**Thank you to my beta, Quinn Anderson, for her excellent brit-picking and positive encouragement! XA**_

**& A &**

The Halloween party was at a huge old castle on the outskirts of London. The Wolverton Castle had been converted to a luxury hotel, now offering authentic 17th century bedrooms and meals. The party was on the first floor, which included a grand entrance hall, ballroom, and several other oversized rooms that the guests could wander freely. There was also a long, covered balcony to one side and a garden beyond, though it was a little chilly for most of the scantily-clad guests.

And scantily-clad they were, by Christ. Sherlock had not been wrong when he said he would not be the most daring. The party, John noted from the signs on the way in, was hosted by The Madison Club, a very exclusive 'adult' club in London. The party-goers were clearly more concerned with being sexually provocative than scary, and many costumes were as daring as Sherlock's or even more so. There were nipples (painted and otherwise) on display and even a few male buttocks artfully bared. John tried not to stare.

As they entered, John felt collected enough to sweep back his cape. The stage sword at his side was a little silly, but it still felt good to rest his left hand on it, gave him a bit of confidence in a posh crowd like this.

Sherlock's eyes swept over him. "The costume fits you well," he commented coolly. John was grateful that he wasn't going to remark on the earlier 'mystery of the covering cape'.

"It does," John agreed, keeping his eyes most anywhere but his flatmate. "Should I be flattered that you knew my measurements?"

John smiled at the reference. Sherlock didn't.

"Right then. So, now what?" John asked.

"I'm afraid I must go seek out my prince," Sherlock said with dry irony. His eyes swept John once more. "Do make an effort to keep the women in check tonight, at least enough to keep one eye on me. Once I find our man, you'll need to follow us back to his room. I may not be able to text you."

"Have I ever let you down?" John said. What he thought was, _As if I could take my eyes off you for five seconds tonight, what with you looking like that._

Sherlock didn't answer. He gave John one last inscrutable look, _shifted_ into a different persona – one John thought looked both androgynous and flirtatious - and headed off into the crowd.

"Amazing," John said to no one as Sherlock slinked off. He sighed. God, he was pathetic.

John mingled, always keeping one eye on a distant, lithe figure in blue. As Sherlock moved from room to room, John followed as discretely as possible, always keeping his distance. There were, in fact, a lot of beautiful women at the party, and several even looked his way. A few of the men did as well. John just smiled politely and kept moving.

He did notice a male lizard creature watching him, but he ignored the man (really not a great make-up choice if you're hoping to pull someone – just… creepy – though the green on his face was a lovely shade of chartreuse).

It wasn't until the man was inches away and said his name that John recognized him. "Ah, John. You make a dashing Pimpernel."

John did a double-take into yellow eyes split with a vertical black pupil. "_Mycroft_?" he whispered.

"In the flesh," Mycroft said archly. "Or should I say _scales_."

John looked him up and down. He wore a form-fitting bodysuit that looked quite a lot like genuine snake skin. His hair was hidden under a cap of the same material and his face (green) and lips (black) were obviously done by a professional. On his green hands were long black nails.

"That's… truly disgusting," John said.

Mycroft gave him a tolerant smile. "Bit of an in joke, I'm afraid. You have heard the theory that all of the world's most powerful families are actually lizards? Presumably an alien lizard race colonized the Earth long ago and now holds the reins of control. Naturally, we elites wear human disguises most of the time in order to soothe the masses."

"I, uh, hadn't heard that one, no."

"Ah. Just as well. If you were a conspiracy theorist none of us would be happy."

There was a vague threat there somewhere, but John decided it wasn't worth his time to parse it.

"Are you trying to tell me my flatmate's really a lizard pretending to be human? Because that would explain a lot."

"I said it was a theory. I didn't say it was true. No, Sherlock's not _that _easy to explain." Mycroft sighed.

"Ah."

John realised with a start that he'd been distracted from the task of watching Sherlock's back. He looked around quickly and was relieved to see him. He was fake laughing with someone tall who was dressed as Death, scythe and all. Sherlock was turned in such a way that his ridiculously lush arse was towards John, and the crowd helpfully split to give him a clear view.

Damn. _So_ fine.

Mycroft discretely cleared his throat. "When we first met John, I said something about bravery. Do you remember?"

"Yeah," John said. "You said 'Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity.'"

"I'm so flattered you thought the conversation worth remembering_," _Mycroft said with a fake smile.

"The Holmes family has a gift for being memorable," J_o_hn replied dryly.

"Then you'll understand that it's not a compliment when I say that you're not nearly as stupid as you used to be."

"What?" John looked at him sharply.

Mycroft nodded towards Sherlock. "Dear God, what _is _he wearing? Mummy would have fits." He gave a long-suffering shudder. "John, I can see that you've finally allowed yourself to acknowledge your feelings for my brother. Well done. Yet you've still not acted on them."

John had no idea what to say. None.

"I'm disappointed in you, John," Mycroft tsked. "I never took you for a _coward_."

The last word was emphasised in that icy, disdainful way that only Mycroft could effect. John wasn't sure whether to hit him or slink away in shame. "Yeah? Well there's binding up shrapnel wounds on the front lines, and then there are things in life that are _really_ scary."

John wished for a glass of something, anything alcoholic. A waiter was passing with a tray and he grabbed a drink that was an unnatural shade of blood red. There was an eyeball encased in ice floating in it. He downed it anyway. Vodka and pomegranate juice by the taste of it.

"John, do you trust me?" Mycroft asked.

"Well, that depends."

"Surely you believe I have my brother's best interest at heart, and, thus, by extension, yours."

"It still depends." John said. "Especially seeing as how you're dressed like a giant iguana." Because yes, Mycroft was firmly in Sherlock's court, but Mycroft's idea of where Sherlock's best interests lay were not necessarily the same as Sherlock's or even John's.

Mycroft gave him a 'oh, come now' look. "Let's say you were outdoors in an area of high winds and dangerous cliffs. Blindfolded. And you only had the sound of my voice to guide you -"

"I'd rather not. "

"—_please_, John, I'm trying to give you a pertinent illustration. Do pay attention. Now, there you are blindfolded, dangerous terrain, and I told you that it was safe for you to step forward. Would you trust me enough to do that?"

John just gazed at him, unsure of what to say. Those lizard eyes made it hard to say anything.

Mycroft leant forward and spoke low in his ear. "John. _Step forward_."

**& B &**

When John left Mycroft, he didn't see Sherlock. But surely, he had only just stepped out. John walked quickly into the only adjacent room – and didn't see him. He went quickly to the next and felt a pang of panic – but Sherlock was there. He was…

He was by the doors to the balcony talking to a Romanian prince.

The man, John noted with a surge of both adrenaline and jealousy, cut a dramatic and handsome figure. He was as tall as Sherlock and had a similar mix of dark-and-fair. His coal black hair was swept back from his forehead and fell thick around his shoulders. His face was very pale (make-up, John guessed) and angular with a Roman nose. He had a black mask over his eyes, much like John's, but attractive dark eyes glittered from beneath. He wore a snow white shirt under an old-fashioned suit, black, made out of some exquisite material and well cut. He was broad-shouldered and slim in the hips, long-legged. At his waist was a purple satin sash with a blood red symbol of some kind on the front, right where his belly button would be. It looked, well, _Romanian_. He also had a large signet ring with a red stone on one hand.

The man's eyes were locked on Sherlock as if he were the only person in the room. Sherlock was talking, his head cocked coyly to one side, his posture tilted left with his right foot slightly extended. It was not any way Sherlock Holmes would normally stand. He was _flirting_, John could tell, and he couldn't even see Sherlock's face.

The Romanian prince said something, tilted his head in a kind of bow, and then took a step backwards towards the balcony, holding out his hand. Sherlock put his long blue fingers into that hand and they slipped out into the night. Sherlock never even looked around to see if John was watching.

John followed to the balcony as discretely as he could. There were several couples outside as well as several smokers. The couples were engaged in the sorts of activities that could keep you warm on a cold night. The smokers shivered.

The Romanian prince was drawing Sherlock down to the shadows at the far end of the balcony, as far from the party as he could. John was wondering why Sherlock was going along with it when Sherlock stopped and tugged his hand away. He sat against the balcony railing there, where they were still in the light. _Good,_ John thought. _He knows better than to get too far out. _The Romanian prince conceded the point with grace, stepped close to Sherlock and then put his hands on Sherlock's bare arms. He rubbed them gently, as if to keep him warm. John felt himself tensing up like a coiling spring. He stepped into the shadow cast by the castle wall. He braced himself not to interfere, but he'd be damned if his eyes would leave Sherlock for a moment.

Sherlock was still talking, non-stop it appeared, looking up coyly at the suspect from his seated position. But the prince was not having it. After a moment, he put his hand on Sherlock's jaw to still it, and then he leant in and kissed Sherlock.

No, it was not the first time John had seen Sherlock kiss someone for a case, and it would likely not be the last, but at the moment none of that meant a piss in a teacup. John _hated it_. His hand clenched the handle of his prop sword so tight that he was sure to have bruises in his palm in the morning. He gritted his teeth.

Sherlock pulled away after a bit, laughing and chatting again, trying to keep it light. But there was something dark and heavy about the man in the princely guise; John could feel it even from where he was standing. Sherlock's efforts at lightening anything fell flat.

The man said something to Sherlock, his eyes hungry on Sherlock's face, a hot glance down his body. Whatever it was, it shut Sherlock up. The prince moved his hand to Sherlock's chin, pulled down in such a way that Sherlock's mouth opened a bit, and then he kissed Sherlock again.

John tensed, coming off the wall and only just refraining from going over there. He knew that move. At this minute, the man probably had his tongue deep in Sherlock's mouth, and the thought drove John round the twist. Yet, as much as he wanted to go over there and put a stop to this, he knew Sherlock would kill him. Sherlock probably felt nothing at all about the man tonguing him. After all, Sherlock felt no compunction at hiding in skips or sticking his hand in wounds gone ripe with maggots. It was all in a day's work. He wouldn't appreciate John ruining the case.

And then the 'prince', still deep in a kiss with Sherlock, put his hands on Sherlock's stomach, getting right up under that wispy veil of a vest without even looking. The fingers of both hands were splayed just above the waistband of Sherlock's shorts, gripping tight, his palms inches away from getting extremely personal.

_Too close, too fucking close. Big mistake. Because now I'm going to have to break those hands_, John thought with a rising swell of bitter calm than was somehow worse than his earlier anger.

But before he could move, Sherlock twisted himself away. He stood up, laughing and acting a bit silly. He took a step back towards the door to the ballroom and held out a hand, inviting princey to join him.

_Thank God, he's getting him back inside. Smart._ John thought. But really, it wasn't. Because according to Sherlock's plan, the next step was for Sherlock to go with the man up to his room and to be in there alone with him for fifteen minutes or so. Now that John had seen the man in action, he knew that was in no way, shape or form a viable idea. This man was a predator, and he wanted Sherlock. If Sherlock could barely fend him off out here, on the balcony, he'd never manage it once there were alone in his room.

John was wondering how he was going to stop Sherlock from going upstairs, when it suddenly became not the most immediate problem. Because princey wasn't going along with Sherlock's bid to go back inside. He was staring into Sherlock's eyes with this wicked stare. And then he took Sherlock's offered hand and tugged him forward, hard. Sherlock stumbled towards the man and ended up in his arms, pressed tight to that black suit. For a long moment, the man continued to stare into Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock didn't fight him. He didn't move. And then the man crushed his mouth to Sherlock's in a bruising kiss, locked his arms around him, and began dragging him backwards, heading for the deep shadows at the end of the balcony where they would be hidden from sight.

Sherlock did not make a move to resist him. His feet were limp on the floor, dragging behind him.

John. Saw. Red.

He was not thinking very clearly as he ran towards the Romanian prince. He was not thinking of alibis or cover stories or citizen's arrests or of anything, really, except making that man as bloody and broken as possible.

The man heard him as John got near (well, he was running at full speed). He looked up in surprise, breaking the kiss just in time for John to get in a powerful left hook. It was a direct hit on the man's nose. The man went stumbling back, releasing Sherlock, but he didn't fall. John was a bit surprised at that. It had been a hard blow.

"John?" Sherlock said, sounding a bit dazed. He had stumbled to his feet and instinctively away from the fight.

The Romanian prince made a feral sound and started for John. He looked very, very angry.

"Come on, then, you _fuck_," John said, in a deadly steady voice.

The man came and, honest to God, tried to _backhand _John, as if he were some pissed off noble. And he nearly succeeded. He moved very fast. But John ducked in time and slammed a knee into the man's gut. When he doubled over with a grunt of pain, John laced the fingers of both hands to make a double first and brought it up as hard as he could into the soft underside of the man's jaw. John was _furious_. He held back nothing. He wanted to _kill _the man.

The move snapped the man's head back. Hell, it might have broken the neck on some men. But the prince only stumbled back a few steps and then straightened up slowly. He rubbed a hand along his jaw, as if feeling for damage, and looked warily at John. His eyes flickered from Sherlock to John and back again as if wondering if it was worth it.

_No, you fuck. It's not. Walk away before I rip you to shreds with my teeth right here on the bloody stone tile._

As if the man had heard him, he bared his teeth and fucking _snarled_.

John stared at him, fists clenched, still in a fighter's stance next to Sherlock. But… he was suddenly a little confused. Because the man was not bleeding anywhere and didn't even look hurt. John had got in three solid hits that would have downed most men. Even his nose was not bleeding, and John had smashed it good.

"John! I had no idea you'd be here tonight," Sherlock said, sounding both apologetic and a bit hysterical. "I'm so sorry, Vlad. John's an old boyfriend. He always was _crazy_ jealous. That's why I had to break it off, in fact. John, you can't _do_ this anymore."

People were gathered behind him, John realised, the smokers and others drifting out from the ballroom, wanting to see the fight, wanting to see some blood.

_But there is no blood._

The Romanian prince, 'Vlad' apparently, noticed the onlookers, too. With one last look at Sherlock, and a muttered, "I'll trouble you no more," he swept past John and went back inside.

**& C &**

John paced on the balcony, his temper still up. The onlookers slowly drifted away, realising there wasn't going to be a show. Sherlock sat on the railing a little slumped. He shivered in the cold.

"See, this is why this bloody seduction thing of yours is never a fucking good idea!" John hissed through clenched teeth.

Sherlock said nothing. He chewed his lip thoughtfully.

"Well?" John demanded. "Aren't you going to say something idiotic like 'Why did you stop me, John, I had everything under control' – when you so clearly did _not_!"

"No, I didn't," Sherlock said, without any emotion. "John, there's something about that man. He's very dangerous."

"Ya think?" John said bitterly.

"He… I don't know how to say it, he… sapped my will. He must be using a hypnosis technique. It's fascinating."

"Great! It's fascinating!" John mocked.

"At least now we know how he pulls his victims. I _know_ he's the killer, but obviously, my original plan will need to be adjusted."

"So you're not planning on going back in for round two of 'seduce the hypnotic blood-sucking molester'? So glad to hear it!"

Sherlock looked at John sharply for the first time. "Why are you acting so incensed? What is the matter with you?"

John stopped and stared at Sherlock. "What is the...? That man had his _hands on you_. He had his fucking _tongue_ in your fucking _mouth_. And if I hadn't been here, he would have had you back in that corner over there impaled and sucked dry in more ways than one!"

Sherlock just stared at him, looking a little shocked. John realised, belatedly, just what that had sounded like. He sounded like an insanely jealous nutter. Dear God, he was one. Who was he to say who could and couldn't put their tongue in Sherlock's mouth? He had no claim on his flatmate. But he hated the way Sherlock had looked – slightly dazed, his composure lost, kissed hard. He hated that Sherlock had looked like that and that someone else had done it.

John took a couple of calming breaths, looking away. "Sorry," he said tightly.

Sherlock stepped close to him and spoke softly. "There isn't time for this. We have to get this man, tonight, before he kills again."

John nodded, tightly. He would be more than happy to see that man locked away. "He should have gone down. The way I hit him, he should have been on the ground."

Sherlock started pacing anxiously. "Unfortunately, he still seems perfectly functional. At least I got him to tell me his room number - 213. I'm going to go up there and break in. I have to find some evidence, something the police will take seriously."

"Those things you mentioned in the cab," John said. "A syringe, tubing –"

"Containers, yes. They have to be in his room. You keep an eye on him. Don't let him out of your sight. He'll probably try to pull someone else. That should take him a bit. When you see him head for his room text me."

John nodded, feeling no small amount of relief. Yes, this was a much better plan. He was happy with anything that didn't involve Sherlock and 'Vlad' getting near each other again. Let the man seduce someone else.

John pulled out his mobile to check the battery, feeling paranoid. It was nearly full. "When I text you, you get out of there, whether you've found anything or not. Right?"

Sherlock nodded, but something in his eyes said he was no longer paying attention.

**& D &**

John kept an eye on Vlad, trying even harder this time not to be obvious. Vlad did not appear to be paying any attention to John, though. He wandered around the party, having no trouble drawing stares and interest. After perhaps twenty minutes, a very fit young man dressed as a cop (well, a pole dancing version of a cop) started talking to Vlad. The young man grabbed two drinks from a passing waiter and handed one of Vlad. He took it with a nod and -

"Me-_ow_," purred a woman's sultry voice.

"Sorry?" John said, turning to her because, after all, it was not every day that a woman made animal noises into your ear.

It was a black cat. Or rather, it was a woman dressed as a black cat. She looked something like a cross between Halle Berry's Cat Woman and a kinked up Barbie. She wore a soft-looking, black velvet body suit cut high on her thighs and low at her cleavage, sheer black hose that ended in black stilettos, and a headband with black cat ears on it. Her face was unpainted except for the black 'whiskers' striped along her cheeks, black on the tip of her nose and very red lips. Her dark hair fell straight down her back.

"Meow yourself," John said appreciatively.

"I noticed you earlier staring at another man," the woman said with a put-upon sigh. "Did that one not pan out? Too bad; he was dishy."

"Um…"

"Looks like this one's taken, too," Black Cat said, nodding towards Vlad.

John looked – Vlad was still talking to Police Boy.

"I take it you like tall, dark and slender." She posed theatrically, one hand behind her head. "Will I do? Of course, my equipment is 'inny' rather than 'outie'. Was rather hoping you played both sides of the fence?"

She was so bold, and her expression of exaggerated hopefulness was so cute, that John had to laugh. "As it happens, I'm quite familiar with your side of the fence."

"Oh, _yum_," she smiled, delighted. "I thought you looked like you could play for just about any team. If you don't mind my saying so."

"Uh, I don't mind?"

She stepped closer and, incredibly, reached around to grab John's arse. She whispered into his ear.

"I saw you in the entry hall a good hour ago. Someone swept by you and knocked that darling little cape to the side—" John remembered that. "—the movement caught my eye and then guess what I saw?"

"I'm all ears," John smiled.

"I saw this delectable little arse of yours. All round and tight and sweet. Do you know, it actually made me _swoon_. I swear to God, I got faint staring at it."

"Let me guess, you'd just had your third 'bloody eyeball' vodka?" John laughed.

"Second," she said with a smile, "but the swoon was down to you, I'd bet my life on it."

"Tell me more," John said, placing a hand on her waist, because he did just want to feel, for a moment, how soft that black velvet was.

And he was still rather pissed off at Sherlock for snogging a suspect on the fucking balcony. How could he use his body so lightly like that, with a murder suspect yet, when he was ice man with John? And why the hell _shouldn't_ John flirt? Was he to pine in vain forever? Become a eunuch? Sherlock would never…

_Sherlock._

John turned his head quickly, looking for Vlad. But Vlad was gone.

John raced through the rooms of the party, but Vlad was nowhere to be seen, nor was Police Boy. He ran up the main staircase, cursing at his own stupidity and texting as he went.

**_Lost sight of him. Think he's headed up with a man._**

And then, when there was no immediate reply.

**_Get out!_**

There was still no response as John walked as fast as he dared through the upstairs halls. Running had got him stares. He had to look like he belonged there. He smiled at a couple who passed him. They were dressed as his and her aliens.

"Evening," John said, as pleasantly as he could manage.

What if Vlad had already opened the door to his room, Police Boy in tow, only to find Sherlock in there? What would he do? There had been cunning in his eyes down there on the balcony, John had seen it. After the spectacle he and Sherlock had put on, there's no way he wouldn't know immediately that Sherlock was trying to entrap him.

John searched door numbers frantically.

Still no text from Sherlock.

If Sherlock was seriously hurt tonight because John had not paid attention, had got distracted by a _woman_, John would -

Door 213. John stood there, trying to still his own breathing so he could listen. He heard nothing.

He hesitated, then thought of a cover story. If Vlad was in there, John could act drunk, like he was still looking for Sherlock and thought he was with Vlad. That would work. Before he had a chance to overthink it, John knocked.

"Sherlock? You in there?" he slurred, just loud enough to heard inside. The door opened.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock hissed. He looked around the hall and yanked John inside, shut the door and locked it.

"Why are you still in here?" John asked, noting with relief that Vlad was nowhere to be seen. "I texted you. He's probably on his way up!"

Sherlock looked with frustration around the room. He put a finger to his mouth. "Shh! I've found _nothing,"_ he whispered. "There's not a single piece of equipment in here,"

"Well, time's up! Let's get _out_ of here!" John whispered back adamantly.

"Did he pull someone?" Sherlock asked, his face set in that determined/intense look of his.

"Yes, which is why we need to get out of here right now!"

"Didn't you hear me?" Sherlock hissed softly. "I've got nothing! We're going to have to hide and watch and—"

"_Watch_? No. Text Lestrade right now and-"

Sherlock clapped a hand over John's mouth. They listened. There were footsteps approaching, soft but audible on the hall carpet. John barely had time to think 'oh, shit' before Sherlock was pulling him down and under the bed.

John went along, hearing the sound of the key in the door. It wasn't until they were under there that John registered the fact that the room had had a distinctly antiquey feel, with a high poster bed – so high, in fact, that there was a short set of wooden steps alongside it. And now they were under that bed, hidden by the ivory linen bed skirt.

Vlad and Police Boy entered the room.

**& E &**

John supposed it wasn't the weirdest situation he and Sherlock had ever been in, not by half. But it was weird enough. They were underneath an antique bed in a room in which a serial killing vampire was snogging a man dressed like a police stripper. There was irony in there somewhere. Hell, there was irony in there _everywhere_.

John was on his back, shoulder to shoulder with Sherlock, who was also on his back. The bedside lamp was on, giving the room a soft glow, and plenty of it worked its way through the linen bed skirt, enough for John to be able to turn his head and see Sherlock's face.

Sherlock was looking up at the underside of the bed – unfinished wooden slats that were about four inches above his blue nose. He turned his head to look at John. And grinned.

John raised an eyebrow back as if to say _another fine mess you've got us into_, but he couldn't contain the small smile that tugged at one corner of his lips. Because hell, it was dangerous and ridiculous and bloody well _fun_.

John tilted his head to the left, indicating the edge of the bed. _Shall we grab him now?_

Sherlock gave a brief shake of the head – _No. Wait._

John wasn't entirely surprised. Sherlock had said 'hide and watch'. He remembered the conversation they'd had in the cab. The killer attacked his victims _post-coitally_. Sherlock hadn't been able to find the killer's gear, so he probably wanted to wait until Vlad was about ready to drain the victim, _after sex_. Which meant that 'Plan B' was he and Sherlock lying underneath this bed listening to Vlad and Police Boy going at it on top.

Suddenly, the situation did not seem at all funny.

John still had his head turned towards Sherlock. Sherlock was looking at him, but he wasn't really focused. He was listening. John listened, too. From the room, there were the sounds of rustling, hands over fabric. Police Boy said. "I don't normally do this. My friends will wonder where I've gone."

John had a moment to realise that if he and Sherlock weren't under the bed, Police Boy's friends would have never seen him alive again. Lucky break that. Assuming he and Sherlock could stop what was about to happen.

"A night like this deserves a little excitement and… seduction," came Vlad's voice.

John rolled his eyes. But Sherlock did not respond, either to Vlad's words or John's expression. He looked pensive as he listened.

There were the sounds of more softly roaming hands, faint wet sounds (kissing). Someone groaned. "_Mmm, yeah. Oh, yeah_."

John was tensed, trying to stay focused on being alert, being ready to attack. But the sounds were not helping. The two men sat on the bed and the slats above John sagged a bit. They creaked as the men's full weight settled back onto it.

God, they were right above John. The slats heaved in a vaguely rhythmic pattern. John had a mental image of Police Boy half-lying back with Vlad above him on hands and knees.

_"Mmm. Ah. gasp Yes. Yes, lick me there."_

The sounds were heavy with lust and pleasure. There was the sound of a zipper. John's damned body was responding. It suddenly struck him how close Sherlock was. His right shoulder was pressed to John's left, his face turned to look at him, eyes locked on John's. He looked so exotic with his hair swept back, dark as ink in the dim light, his face painted with glitter and swirls. The paint on his skin made his eyes a mesmerising blue-gray. His lips were darkly tinged and smeared from earlier, John noted, from when Vlad had _kissed him_.

The thought made John feel another surge of anger, yet lust seemed to come in equal measure. It took John a moment to figure out why. Vlad had kissed Sherlock, and that was bloody awful. But Sherlock _had been kissed_. There was something there.

Sherlock's mouth had been kissed; ergo it was kissable. Ipso facto, John might kiss it.

The slats pushed down again as someone above dug in their heels and pushed. There was the sound of fabric. Vlad was taking off Police Boy's trousers, John surmised. Then they settled back down and the groans intensified along with wet, sucking sounds.

_"Oh, God. Oh, yeah. Oh, your tongue. That feels so good."_

John could not stop his brain from helpfully supplying images to go with the sounds, images of Vlad running his tongue up Police Boy's cock, taking in the head and sucking at it. As much as John hated the man, there was something about him that was magnetic, powerful. You could feel it in the room.

Fuck, John was fully hard.

He was suddenly incredibly embarrassed, that he, a grown man, a solider, could get hard from the sounds of a serial killer giving a blow job (and from being under the bed with his gorgeous flatmate, but that was even worse). He turned his head away from Sherlock and looked up at the slats, felt his face burn with shame. He couldn't help sparing a quick glance down the line of his body to see how obvious his predicament was.

Fuck, it was very obvious. He was laying with his cape scrunched up beneath him, no help there. Looking straight down the line of his body, the material of the breeches was far too stretchy. His erection bulged upward obscenely, like a plant lifting to the light.

He closed his eyes. Great. He knew this whole night was a rubbish idea from the start, and he'd been right – it was a total and complete fiasco.

John felt fingers on his jaw. They gently tugged his head towards Sherlock. _Look at me._

John swallowed and opened his eyes, turned and looked.

Sherlock's gaze was focused on him now and he looked… warm and… amused? Sherlock silently eased his hand back from John's jaw to its place alongside Sherlock's body and then directed John's gaze down by looking at himself, lifting his head slightly.

John looked down. Sherlock had an erection, too.

It was so unexpected, John made a soft noise somewhere between a gasp and a laugh.

Both he and Sherlock stilled, waiting to see if they'd been heard. But above them, Police Boy was groaning continually and the slats were moving, making soft squeaky sounds, and they didn't stop.

John looked at Sherlock. Sherlock looked at John.

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow, the corner of his mouth turned up in a slight smile.

_Well. This is interesting_, Sherlock's look said.

John raised both brows, pursed his mouth ironically. _Only you and I could find ourselves in a situation like this._

Sherlock looked down at their erections, then at the edge of the bed, looking rueful. _Rather inconvenient to have to jump out and capture a serial killer whilst we're both hard._

Then he looked into John's eyes, holding them steadily, jaw tight.

John had no clue what that look meant. Or, God help him, maybe he did.

He was still trying to process the idea that _Sherlock was erect_. So, he was not asexual then. Sherlock's mouth bore the evidence of kisses, therefore it was kissable. Sherlock's cock was erect, therefore it was capable of erection, of arousal, stimulation, pleasure. Ipso facto, John might pleasure it.

The knowledge was an incredible relief, so much so that John wanted to laugh out loud. He hadn't realised how much he had feared a perpetually sex-less existence, in love with a man who had no libido. He hadn't realized how much he'd suppressed his own desire, his natural responses, out of fear that Sherlock was incapable of arousal, not until this moment.

John grew even harder. His cock throbbed, wanting the man beside him so very much.

Sherlock was still looking at him, not moving, just staring, waiting.

Waiting?

John couldn't believe what he was seriously contemplating.

Surely, this couldn't be their first time. Not under a bed with a serial killer on top of it. Not stuck in a place where they could hardly move, where they could not bring their mouths close enough to kiss, where they would not be able to freely touch each other or even make a sound. In the two or three dozen scenarios John had imagined about their first touch, their first step across that line, this wasn't remotely like any of them. There should be freshly-washed sheets, music, or perhaps the warm beat of the shower, the exuberance of the landing, the hallway, up against the door of their flat, against the fridge, in front of the telly on the sofa, on a rooftop in the rain… anything but this.

Then again, it was, in a peculiar way, so very _them_.

John swallowed. He listened; the sounds going on above them didn't seem anywhere close to the finish line. They had time. He nodded, once, at Sherlock and then _stepped forward_.

John's left hand was next to Sherlock's hip. It took very little to raise it and place it, just so, on Sherlock's hip bone. His skin was warm under the rough fabric of the shorts. John's thumb found the edge of Sherlock's hipbone and followed it down, pushing under the edge of the shorts as he went. The feeling of the silky skin under this thumb was electric.

He continued to gaze into Sherlock's eyes, ready for a refusal, a look of confusion, of distain. It didn't come. Sherlock's mouth parted slightly as his breathing quickened. His eyes darkened as he looked back at John. There was nothing but _yes_ in that face. John swallowed.

He glanced down so he could see as his fingertips skimmed over Sherlock's belly, that lovely taunt muscle. God, how he'd wanted to touch it earlier tonight. It felt firm and silky under his fingers. He ghosted along it, back and forth, towards the considerable bulge under the fabric of the shorts, then away again. The shorts were fairly tight, but as John's fingers skimmed just under the waistband, Sherlock sucked his stomach in with a gasp, and John was able to pull the shorts up a bit. Sherlock's erection escaped the downward-facing position in which it had been aimed and slipped towards Sherlock's belly, in effect coming up to meet John's fingers as if it had a will of its own. He felt the head spring against his fingertips and pulled them to the side a bit so he could see it, _had to see it_. There, as he pulled the fabric up, the head of Sherlock's cock was visible, hard and little wet, plump and round.

John, in fascination, rubbed his thumb along the tip, hardly able to believe this was really happening.

Sherlock stiffened next to him, arching his back and biting his lips, eyes closed. John's own lust surged at the sight, at the idea that he was causing Sherlock to react like that, that Sherlock wanted it. He ran his thumb more confidently around the head, fingers reaching down to get a grip on the shaft, but the shorts were too tight.

Sherlock's fingers were suddenly scrambling at the ties as his side. He managed to undo them and pulled the binding loose, creating enough space for John to comfortably get his entire left hand down the shorts. He did, his heart pumping double time as he felt the hard, heavy, slightly sweaty length of Sherlock in his hand. It was incredibly erotic, the feel of Sherlock's hard cock. In fact, it was such an enormous turn on that for a moment John wondered how was possible that he'd never wanted this before, or how, given that he'd never before thought 'cock, yeah, I want that', the feel of it could be so intensely arousing now.

But any thoughts were soon subsumed by the immediacy of it, the feeling of Sherlock in his hand, the way his skin slipped over the shaft as John stroked, the way Sherlock's hips heaved up in tight, instinctive thrusts, the look on Sherlock's face as his head was thrown back, neck arched off the rug, biting his lips fiercely, a frown furrowed between his eyes as he focused on not making a sound.

God. John could very well come in his pants just by doing this.

Sherlock turned his face and opened his eyes to look at John. His irises were nearly taken over by pupil. His lips were plump and red from biting. He looked dazed, lustful. He continued to thrust up into John's hand, never breaking rhythm, as his long fingers snaked over to john's hips and deftly undid the two buttons on the front placket of his breeches. John held his breath as those long fingers slipped inside.

At the first touch on his cock, John nearly hit the slats above them. Pleasure jolted through him, the pleasure of those fingers squeezing him, sliding up and over him. _Oh, God_. But nearly as intense was the very idea of it, the knowledge that it was Sherlock touching him, that he was willing to touch him, that they could _do things like this_, and the visual of Sherlock so close to him, pliant and shaking with want.

It was awkward as hell, Sherlock's long arm on top of John's in that confined space as they both tried to stroke each other with mostly wrist action. They kept silently banging into each other, getting in the way. John wanted to say – _just let me finish you off and then you can do me_, because it was really not ideal, and yet he couldn't bear the thought of stopping – neither touching Sherlock so intimately nor being stroked himself - because it felt too damn good.

He and Sherlock stared into each other's eyes when they weren't looking at each other's mouths or looking down to see the erotic sight of their jointly moving hands inside clothes.

God, it was very possibly the most restrained sex John had ever had and yet so very, very good. John wanted to moan. He would have given his right nut to kiss Sherlock's mouth, to kiss him deep and hard, but he couldn't. They were shoulder to shoulder and there was not enough headroom for John to turn towards Sherlock. He'd be damned if their first kiss would involve strained necks and just falling short of the goal.

John became aware that the men above him were fucking. The rhythm of the slats was steady and hard and Police Boy was making high-pitched noises. _God, fuck me, harder, harder!_

John could imagine himself saying that to Sherlock, the feeling of Sherlock taking him, or Sherlock saying that to him while he, John, was thrusting inside. If he had the room, he could roll over and cover that gorgeous body right now, grind them together…. _God, yeah._ John was very, very close.

Sherlock was, too. His brow furrowed and his lip trembled in what almost looked like a sob. His free hand grabbed at John's wrist and drove him faster, harder, for two strokes and then John felt Sherlock's cock pulse, felt hot, wet semen splatter his forearm as Sherlock stared into his eyes and bit his lip hard, an expression like pain on his face from having to hold everything back.

Sherlock's hand had stopped moving on John just before he came and John was so, _so _close. Seeing Sherlock come, feeling his hot, hard flesh pulse against his fingers, well, _Christ_. As soon as Sherlock started to recover and move his hand again, John removed his own hand from Sherlock's softening cock, placed it over Sherlock's, and squeezed tight. One pump, two, three and he was coming.

**& F &**

They had nothing with them, so they wiped semen onto the rug. John said a silent prayer of apology to the maid. They tucked and buttoned. Sherlock looked at John with a dazed and amused looked. And John knew exactly what it said.

_Well! That was unexpected. You do surprise me, John._

_Yes, Sherlock_, John thought,_ and I'm so very glad to be surprised by you as well._ In fact, halle-fucking-lujah.

Sherlock glanced towards the edge of the bed. When his eyes shot to John's again, they had changed completely and were hard as steel.

_Ready to do this?_

John nodded.

It was only a few minutes later when the activity on the bed ceased. For a moment, there was only the sound of heavy breathing.

"Would you like a glass of wine? I opened some earlier."

"Yeah, that would be brilliant," Police Boy said.

John frowned at Sherlock. _Now?_

Sherlock shook his head. _Not yet._

John assumed whatever Vlad gave his victims was not fatal then. Just enough to knock them out. There was the sound of glasses, of liquid pouring.

"Finish," Vlad said, "I hate to see good wine go to waste."

And a few minutes later. "Ah, there you go." Vlad's voice was low and dark. "Goodnight, my sweet."

Sherlock placed a hand on John's wrist. _Not yet._

John tensed. He was starting to feel a little worried. He didn't have his gun, and Vlad had already proven to be remarkably able to deal with the worst John could dish out. At least there would be two of them this time. And Sherlock was a fairly strong fighter. Still.

John gripped the hilt of the stage sword with his left hand, wishing it were real. Three feet of sharp, cold steel would be real handy about now. They should have thought of that ahead of time. With his costume, he could have got away with a real sword. And then they'd have—

Sherlock's grip on his arm grew tighter. From above them came the faint and very disturbing sounds of…. slurping.

Sherlock mouthed _now_. At the same moment, John rolled to his right and Sherlock to his left, both coming out from opposite sides of the bed and jumping to their feet.

On the bed there were no hoses, no tourniquets, no canisters or syringes. There was only Vlad, hovering over his victim. Police Boy's head was turned to one side and he was out cold and already pale. In his neck were two incisor bites which pulsed trickles of blood as Vlad raised his head and hissed at them in fury, his mouth covered in blood.


	3. Chapter 3

**In which John and Sherlock fight a vampire, Mycroft is still slimy, Lestrade howls a bit, and confessions are made back at Baker Street. Smut? In a word: yes.**

**Thanks to my lovely beta, QuinnAnderson! Much appreciated, m'dear.**

It took John several seconds to process what he was seeing and respond. Vlad was on the bed leaning over two holes in Police Boy's throat. His mouth sported unnaturally long incisors that dripped with blood. For a moment, John had the disconcerted feeling that he'd stepped onto a film set or that this was some elaborate prank Sherlock had set up.

Then Sherlock sprang for Vlad and tried to pull him off his victim. John could see what Sherlock meant to do—grab Vlad's shoulders and spin him off and down to the floor—but it didn't work that way. In an instant, Vlad had yanked Sherlock off his feet, pulling him onto and then tossing him _over_ the bed, so hard that Sherlock went flying to the floor on the other side. The violence to Sherlock snapped John into action as Vlad sprang to his feet. The two of them ended up crouched at the foot of the bed in fighter's stances, facing each other.

There was a murderous look in Vlad's eyes that told John he was being taken seriously this time. But Vlad had no weapon, and John was buoyed by the adrenaline that coursed through his body in a welcome rush. He barred in teeth. "Come on then, you blood-sucking bastard."

Vlad came, charging for him. He was bare from the waist up, but had put on a pair of soft black trousers. In an instant, John ducked under his reaching arms and dodged around him. He grabbed a fistful of the waistband at Vlad's back and yanked hard, making Vlad stumble back. John dove in with a left hook, slamming into Vlad's nose hard – _bam_! And when Vlad reeled back further from the blow, again, _bam_!, and once more with everything he could muster – _bam_!

He both felt and heard the crunch of bone, and Vlad's nose erupted in a flood of dark blood. John felt oddly satisfied at that, having been denied it earlier. But it didn't stop Vlad at all. He screamed in rage and grabbed a chair, flinging it at John. John blocked it with an upraised arm, but it slammed into his elbow, causing a jolt of pain. Then Vlad pulled up the heavy-looking coffee table, somehow managing to lift it entirely and swing it at John.

John dodged the heavy missile, just barely, but the table sailed and crashed. In his peripheral vision, John saw it had just missed Sherlock, who was trying to move closer. A fresh wave of rage had John running and slamming into Vlad's legs, tackling him. He heard Sherlock say, "Hold him, John!"

And dear God, John tried, but the suspect was like a wildcat. Vlad slipped from his grasp as if he were oiled, and the next thing he knew, the taller man was using his leverage to grab John's shirt and swing him from one side of Vlad's body to the other, slamming his head hard into the wall.

John registered the sound of impact but was unconscious before he even felt the pain.

There was a dull throb in the back of John's head as he started to swim to consciousness and a worrying sound in his ear. It was the sound – gurgling, choking - of a man being strangled. The noise alarmed some deep instinct in him and he fought to open his eyes, to shake off the blackness that wanted to drag him back down.

As his vision cleared, he saw that his instinctual panic had been right. Across the room Vlad held Sherlock against the wall by the throat, and he was slowly killing him. Sherlock's face was dark red and his eyes were starting to bulge out of his head. He had probably less than a minute left.

John's gut twisted with blinding horror and rage. He looked around desperately for a weapon, anything, the chair, a vase… and saw his prop sword. It had fallen off at some point during the fight with Vlad, the thin plastic belt snapped. He grabbed it in one hand and unsheathed it. It had heft, weight, even if it wasn't real. Moving as silently as he could, he snuck up on Vlad and swung the sword like a bat, smashing the flat of it into the back of Vlad's head. _Die, you bastard!_ The wood connected with a sickening thunk.

Vlad grunted and dropped Sherlock. The detective fell to his hands and knees, gasping and sucking in air.

John wanted to run to Sherlock and check on him, but Vlad was still on his feet. He turned to John with a look of pure fury, opened his mouth and _screamed_. The effect was something out of a deep, primal nightmare – those long fangs, his face and chest splattered with blood and his hands rising like claws.

And John, well, John did what perhaps any trained soldier would have done, or at least one with a penchant for scary films and an obsessive protectiveness for the wounded friend at his feet. John raised the sword over his head with both hands and thrust it into the vampire's chest.

The wooden sword broke through Vlad's ribcage and speared into his heart. For a moment, John and Vlad stood, John's hands still on the hilt of the sword and Vlad looking down at his chest, dazed, as rich blood pulsed from the wound. Then Vlad's eyes rolled back up into his head and he fell.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, are you all right?" John ran to his side. Sherlock's face was nearly a normal colour again. He was breathing heavily but without any alarming wheezing.

He stared at Vlad. "John, you killed him."

"Well, I bloody well hope so!" John said with some doubt. He glanced nervously at the vampire, half expecting him to rise again.

"You stuck a stage sword into his heart," Sherlock said with dull disbelief.

"Seemed the best option at the time. He was kicking our collective arse." John's hands were on Sherlock's head, checking him for injury, running down his arms. Sherlock shook him off impatiently.

"What about you? You were out cold. Your head –"

"Still hard as a rock," John said, even as he ran his own hand over the back of his head. There was no blood.

"You're not concussed?" Sherlock insisted, peering into his eyes.

John blinked. "No double vision. Brain as certifiable as ever, pulling these crazy arsed stunts with you. I'm fine."

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up ever so slightly. He nodded. "You'd better check the victim. I've got to text Lestrade, and we'll need all the corroborating testimony we can get." To himself he muttered. "I can't _wait_ to see his face this time."

John felt a little guilty for not even thinking of Police Boy. He went to the bed and checked him. He was still out, but his breathing was normal and his pulse strong. John tapped his cheeks, trying to get him to awaken, only to be rewarded with a loud snore. Another glance at the gory body on the floor made John decide that Police Boy was probably better off unconscious.

Sherlock squatted next to the body. "John, come here!"

Sherlock pushed up Vlad's lip with a finger, showing the incisor. It was indeed peculiarly long and sharp-looking. "He didn't have these teeth when he was with me earlier tonight."

"Er… maybe they can grow at will?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said_ I know you can't possibly be that stupid_, and handed John his magnifying glass. "Before you get too carried away by folk tales _observe_."

John bent down with the glass and looked. There was a seam along the top of the lethal-looking incisors. John frowned. "They're fake?"

"He must have put them on after the victim drank the wine," Sherlock mused excitedly. He began searching through the drawer of the dresser and pulled out a bottle. "Aha!" It was a bottle of dental adhesive.

"What about his super strength?" John asked.

"Check his pupils," Sherlock said as he started digging around in Vlad's discarded clothes.

John did. The pupils nearly subsumed Vlad's brown irises. "Pupils dilated," John said.

Sherlock held up a thick baggie with white powder in it. He opened it and sniffed, wet his pinky finger and dipped it in, tasted.

"Sherlock, that's not safe!"

Sherlock ignored him. "PCP cut with cocaine," he said succinctly, snapping the bag closed.

John stared at the sword with a frown where it jutted from Vlad's chest.

"You're thinking that a wooden stake killed him," Sherlock said. "As it happens, a wooden sword stuck into anyone's heart will seriously challenge to their ability to keep existing."

"Yes, all right," John snapped, feeling more than a little stupid. He also felt guilty at the disgusting way he'd dispatched their very mortal suspect. "So he wasn't _really _a vampire."

Sherlock squatted next to John and put a hand on his arm, his face serious. "But he _was_, John_._ He killed at least four men that we know of and probably more. He would have killed this man," he nodded towards the bed, "and he'd have kept on killing if you hadn't stopped him."

The words ignited a glow in John's chest but he shook his head. "It wasn't down to me, Sherlock. You found him online."

"Yes, but _you_ stopped him."

For a moment they just looked at each other. They didn't speak, but what they were thinking was clear to both of them – that this was their life, that it had meaning and value even in the face of the constant danger, and that they aided and abetted each other in a way that made them better than the sum of their parts.

Sherlock's face went suddenly detached and clinical. "You wait here for Lestrade. I'll find Mycroft. As much as I hate to admit it, we may need him this time."

John knew what Sherlock was sacrificing. He would _never_ go to Mycroft – except to help John. Who had just murdered a man with a sword. John smiled at him gratefully. "Yeah, this is a bit of a cock up, eh?"

When the knock on the door came a bit later, John was ready. "It's clear," he said in a firm voice. "The suspect is down."

The door opened and Lestrade strode in with the short, red-faced hotel manager and two uniformed officers. "Oh my dear God!" the manager said, catching sight of the bloody spectacle on the floor. He clapped a hand over his mouth and left.

Lestrade stared at the body and shook his head. "Bloody hell, John." He started to rub a worried hand over his face, before remembering that it was covered with fur.

"Werewolf?" John said, standing with his arms crossed.

"I was at a party," Lestrade grumbled. "Who are you, Dread Pirate Roberts?"

"Scarlet Pimpernel. Sherlock picked it out."

"Ah. Well, that's the important bit settled," Lestrade said with irony. "Perhaps you'd care to explain why your sword is sticking out of a dead man's chest? Sherlock texted that he'd caught the so-called vampire killer. That him?"

John grimaced. "That's him. He was a strong blighter. He knocked me out for a bit and was strangling Sherlock. I had no choice, Greg."

Lestrade sighed. "Go on."

"Sherlock was trying to catch him in the act of… collecting the blood. We hid under the bed and he brought this guy up." John nodded to Police Boy, who was snoring away on the bed like Sleeping Beauty. "And when we could hear that he was, well, extracting the blood, we jumped out and tried to grab him. He was _sucking_ it out of the guy's neck. And when he saw us he fought like he was possessed. Apparently he was on a mix of PCP and cocaine. Sherlock found it in his coat."

Lestrade sighed again. "This just gets better and better, doesn't it? What about the victim? Do we need paramedics?"

"He's fine; I've checked. The killer drugged his wine. I'd say it was probably sleeping tablets, but not enough to be dangerous. He's lost a little blood. Still, a trip to hospital is not a bad idea. That and a very large rabies shot."

"And how—"

Just then, Sherlock entered with Mycroft. "Ah, Lestrade."

Lestrade's mouth fell open in an expression of stunned disbelief and embarrassment. "Sherlock! What the hell are you wearing?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't you have something more important to worry about than my costume? The dead serial killer on the floor, perhaps? Just a suggestion."

Lestrade put a hand over his eyes. "Dear God, this is going to get in the papers. I can see the front page photo now. The Scarlet Pimpernel and a naked demon kill a vampire on Halloween night."

"I'm PUCK!" Sherlock protested. He muttered something about the sad state of literacy in England.

"Oh, I think we might be able to do something about the press," Mycroft said smoothly.

Lestrade finally noticed the giant lizard who had entered with Sherlock and looked at him with utter blankness.

"Mycroft Holmes. We have met once or twice." Mycroft held out a black-nailed and scaly hand.

"Uh…. Right." Lestrade shook his hand, then seemed to suddenly remember he was dressed as a werewolf, because he looked down at himself and blushed.

"My dear Detective Inspector, don't be embarrassed on my account," Mycoft said in a voice that would melt butter. "It's very… alpha…. Isn't it?" Mycroft smiled. Or rather, he curled up his reptilian lips. The sight gave John a sense of deep and permanent dread.

But Sherlock was paying no attention. He was in his element. He squatted down next to the body and grinned, looking for all the world like a deranged and sexually mature Smurf. "Oh, never mind _him_, Lestrade. Just wait until I show you the killer's _teeth_!"

**& B &**

In the cab on the way home, John and Sherlock suddenly found themselves alone. During the adrenaline of the fight and then Lestrade, Mycroft and endless statements, there'd been little time to think about that-thing-that-had-happened-under-the-bed. But now, as the London night engulfed the two of them in a cocoon of privacy, John felt those intimate moments coming back to him with a vengeance. Anxiety and want wrapped around his chest like a vice.

Sherlock was looking out the window, his face turned away. He was wrapped in his coat against the chill and it almost could have been any other night if the occasional bright light outside didn't run across his face like a caressing hand, revealing the visage of a fantasy character, someone John didn't know and, let's face it, could never hope to have.

Was it the disguise that allowed him to touch Sherlock tonight? Would the 'real' man rebuff any further touches? Had it been merely a practical matter? An expedient measure to solve the case? He could hear Sherlock's voice in his head. _ We must rid ourselves of these erections before we can work efficiently, John. Given our current distance from each other and from the undercarriage of this antique bed, the laws of leverage and motion would indicate that the most effective means of resolving the matter is via mutual masturbation. Anything for the case._

The Sherlock in John's mind was unreservedly clinical. And, _damn_, why was that still so freaking hot?

"You really must quit saving my life like that. People will talk," Sherlock said, breaking the tension in the back seat. He didn't turn his head.

"Given what's on the rug under the bed, I bet they will," John quipped.

He'd said it as a joke, but it suddenly occurred to John that the hotel room was a crime scene, and that Lestrade and his team would go over it _very thoroughly_. And unless they were really as idiotic as Sherlock pretended they were...

John should have felt mortified, and a part of him did, but he felt a giggle work its way up and demand release. He snorted. He glanced at Sherlock. Sherlock's shoulders were shaking. And then they were both laughing, howling, in the backseat of the cab.

"Can you – oh my God – can you p-picture Lestrade's face when the f-forensics report comes in?" John managed.

"Two fresh sperm samples, Sir." Sherlock mimicked in a bad imitation of Anderson. "They don't match the samples from the killer or the victim. Whatever can it mean?"

John covered his face with his hands, head back on the seat, still giggling madly. "Oh, holy hell. I can just see Lestrade's face next time he stops by. Think they'll ask us for samples?"

"I'll prepare my most condescending glare in case he does. Though you're likely to smirk and give it away."

"I will not!" John protested.

Sherlock glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.

"A slight smirk might work its way onto my face, yeah," John admitted.

"Well, that ought to resolve the poll at Scotland Yard," Sherlock said, still chuckling.

"What poll?"

"You and me and when we'll shag. I believe Sergeant Hansom just won a nice pot."

"What?" John said with disbelief. "You're taking the piss."

"Oh, no. The sign-up sheet is on the window-facing the end of Dimmock's desk in a yellow folder marked 'Christmas Party'."

John thought about that for a moment, about how many people expected them to be a couple, including his most hopeful self, and suddenly the atmosphere in the cab was not so funny.

At the flat, John spoke as they were removing their coats.

"Right – I'll need to look you over. Bathroom, please."

"Unnecessary."

"Sherlock, you were nearly killed. I need to look at your throat to make sure there's no permanent damage. I'll make us both a cuppa and meet you in there."

Surprisingly, Sherlock argued no further. John busied himself making tea, but his body and mind were anything but calm. He was still humming with the adrenaline of the fight and win. And there was something warm and anxious growing in the pit of his belly. When he was under that bed he'd wanted so badly to be home where he could take Sherlock on a proper bed, kiss him for hours, touch him everywhere, taste him, cover him. And now they were here, alone, and he didn't know if any of that would ever happen, or how to get from their normal routine to something so profoundly new.

The tea was ready. He contemplated changing into something comfortable for a moment and hesitated. In the end, he carefully removed his cape and left it on the kitchen table.

Sherlock was sitting quietly on the closed lid of the commode, waiting. He seemed a bit tense and unnaturally quiet.

John handed him his cup. He carefully watched Sherlock take a sip.

"Any pain when you swallow?"

"No."

"Your voice sounds normal."

"I've said I'm all right. Really, John!"

"Hm." John ignored the petulance, which sounded half-arsed at best, frankly. He grasped Sherlock's chin, turning his head gently this way and that to look at his neck. The blue paint was a bit smudged but still obscured the skin. "I'd better wash that paint off so I can see the bruises. D'ya mind?"

He looked into Sherlock's eyes, and for the first time since the hotel they looked back and held. For a moment they were locked in each other's gaze. John could feel himself responding, which was unacceptable in doctor mode. He let go of Sherlock's chin and went to the sink. Sherlock hadn't protested, so John moved forward.

He ran the tap to get it warm and then wet a flannel, rubbed soap into it. Sherlock said nothing. But John could feel his eyes on him, on his back. He self-consciously wished he hadn't removed his cape and then thought, fuck it, and clenched his thighs a bit.

Turning, John held the flannel in one hand and grasped Sherlock's jaw gently with another, cupping it and tilting his head back just a bit, as if to shave him.

"Let me know if this hurts." He began to carefully rub away the paint. There were already dark spots, and as he gently scrubbed, the airbrushed blue resolved itself into pale skin, now pink from the scrubbing, and the violet blue of fresh blood under the skin. John swore. "Christ. These bruises'll be a Halloween costume of their own for a few weeks."

He finished one side and looked at the nearly perfect impression of fingers. He felt anger churn in his gut and something else – fear. If he been unable to stop Vlad…. If he'd been knocked out for even another minute more.

"He's dead," Sherlock said, reading John's mind. "And I'm fine."

John looked into his eyes, acknowledging the words but still feeling very upset. He forced himself to focus, touching the bruises carefully. "Any sharp pain? Anything deep? You're sure it doesn't hurt to swallow?"

Sherlock looked at him steadily. "They're just surface bruises." He hesitated. "His grip was odd. I believe he wanted me to pass out from lack of oxygen, but he was specifically trying not to damage my neck. Perhaps it ruins the flavour."

"Nice. Lovely. That makes me feel so much better." John began scrubbing the other side of Sherlock's (long, lovely) neck. The bruising pattern was much the same.

Sherlock shifted forward on the seat. It was only fraction, and did not really put them that much closer, but the mere idea of it, that he had moved towards John, as if his body was yearning forward, suddenly had John conscious of the fact that he was leaning over Sherlock, had his hands on Sherlock's jaw and throat, that he was still in that damned costume, meaning he was practically nude, his chest and stomach and those long, long legs, _right there_.

John swallowed, hard, at the wave of lust that rushed through him. Jesus, he couldn't remember the last time he'd wanted anyone like this. He shut his eyes for a moment, fighting it, and then released Sherlock and turned towards the sink. He rinsed the flannel, running the tap hot and scrubbing at the blue on it pointlessly. Yes, now he had another very good reason to keep his back to his flatmate.

"You look all right for the moment," John's voice sounded rough. He cleared his throat. "We'll need to keep an eye on it for a few days. If the pain worsens, let me know."

There was no answer. John turned off the tap, but stayed leaning against the sink, his head down. He didn't want to see his face in the mirror, or give Sherlock a chance to see his reflection, knowing what he was feeling was written all over it.

"You removed your cape," Sherlock said. His voice was quiet.

John didn't turn. He smiled a little though, a wry smile at his own foolishness. "On the advice of a black cat."

"Oh?"

"She told me my arse was quite tempting in these breeches." John tried to make it sound like a joke.

"Hm," came the neutral reply.

And now John wanted to turn and exit the bathroom, feeling like an idiot, but his hard on was quite, quite evident and keeping his back turned was the less humiliating of the two options. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes. He thought about ice storms and snow, lots and lots of snow.

"Take off your shirt," Sherlock said. It was a statement, not quite an order, voiced soft and flat. But John heard the barely audible wobble in it and he tensed up like he'd been slapped.

The tap dripped in the silence.

"Why?" John asked, trying to recall if there's been any moment at which Sherlock might have thought his back had been injured.

"I'd… like to see you standing there in those breeches without the shirt," Sherlock said. "If you have no objections."

John felt himself grow harder and something like relief swelled in his chest. _God, yes_. He unbuttoned his cuffs, pulled the white ruffled shirt over his head and dropped it to the floor. He put his hands back on the lip of the sink, gripping it tightly.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, those relentless, all-seeing eyes on the muscles of his shoulders, his back, on his arse under the tight fabric, his thighs, the boots. He wished the bathroom light were a little softer. He wished he were ten years younger. He wished to hell he knew what was going on in Sherlock's mind. This had to be sexual, right? Had to be.

He was about to turn, unable to stand it, when Sherlock spoke.

"Don't move, John. I'd…." Sherlock hesitated for a long moment. "May I touch you?"

"Yes," John said at once, nodding his head for good measure. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing himself not to groan or come in his pants like a teenager at the first contact, because _dear God_, he was so fucking turned on.

He heard Sherlock stand and then felt the tips of his fingers, tentative and shaky with desire, tracing the lines of his shoulders, his scar.

John shook his head almost imperceptibly, not in a 'no' but in a denial of the bittersweet ache that touch gave him. Sherlock seemed to understand. His fingers left the scar and traced down his spine, bumping over the knots of his spinal column in a slow, slow decent. A second hand came up to trail up his bicep and then down his side, skimming over ribs.

John arched his back, biting his lips to keep back a groan.

"The black cat had a point," Sherlock said, his roughened voice coming from only a foot or so behind John. John arched back a little further towards it. He wanted badly to press back, make contact with Sherlock's chest, but that would mean forcing out the hands, and the hands, oh, they were quite lovely, too.

Sherlock shifted further back and now one hand traced warm patterns at the small of John's back with a thumb, rubbing just above the waistband of the breeches. The other… it continued down from his side and down his hip, over the fabric, fingertips rubbing more firmly now, caressing, over the side of his hip and then pressing in and down, rubbing along the curve of his glute, lightly squeezing.

"_Fuck_," John breathed, his eyes still pressed tightly shut. His cock throbbed, and he didn't think it was possible for him to get any harder. The fact that this was Sherlock, Sherlock _touching him_, desire and need making his fingers hungry and bold. It was almost more than John could process.

"I've wanted to touch you like this for so long." Sherlock's voice was deep and raw.

"You have?"

"Since the night you shot the cabbie. But then there was Sarah and you were so clearly not interested. Until recently. What changed your mind?"

"I woke up," John said simply.

And with that he turned, slid his hands up Sherlock chest to his shoulders and pulled him into a kiss.

It was not chaste, not from the first second of contact. It was wet and deep and absolutely sexual. John slicked his tongue along Sherlock's, sucked at his lush bottom lip. Sherlock groaned and pressed into John, chest to chest. John could feel Sherlock hot and hard against this stomach, and he pressed back into him insistently. All he could think was, _Please, God, don't let this stop_. Sherlock was trembling, _fucking trembling_, and he was so very, very hard. There was something in the hesitancy of his tongue, in his way his fingers gripped John's hips that spoke of both inexperience and intense need.

The idea that Sherlock had been wanting this, wanting _him,_ for so long made John's own desire and need swell to an almost unbearable degree.

And then Sherlock had both hands under his arse and lifted him up, up onto the sink. John would normally have protested being manhandled, but he couldn't really give a damn at the moment. He spread his legs, and Sherlock pressed in. Their groins met but it wasn't quite right. John was canted off to the right inside the breeches and he quickly stuffed a hand down his own trousers to arrange himself up, and then they were perfectly aligned and were rubbing and thrusting against each other through two layers of fabric. Sherlock was like a steel rod against his own length and already thrusting erratically, his thighs trembling.

Sherlock's eager mouth on his, his cock needy against him – it was heaven. It was more than enough to get them both off, and quickly. But John was not going to settle for that, not now when he had Sherlock practically bare under his hands.

John placed both hands on Sherlock's waist and pushed him back. Sherlock made a deep moan of protest and tried to burrow back in.

"I want you in bed," John said firmly. "Right bloody now."

Sherlock's eyes were glazed with desire, but he promptly turned, stripping off that transparent vest and yanking at the laces of his shorts as he went. By the time he hit the bed a few seconds later, he was naked and John was right behind him, yanking off his boots one by one and tearing off those (_thank you God_) breeches.

"John," Sherlock said, reaching out for him.

"Hell, yes," John said, climbing over him on all fours.

He kissed Sherlock deeply again, unable to get enough of that mouth. Sherlock was becoming more confident and greedy, sucking John's tongue, swirling and lathing, putting all kinds of lovely, filthy images into John's head.

Sherlock tugged him down, arms around his waist, but John held back, knowing it would be over all too soon if he allowed his cock to touch Sherlock's right now.

"Tell me… tell me you've done this before," John panted, pulling his mouth away.

"Obviously."

"When?" John said, with calm persistence, though he felt anything but calm.

"Uni," Sherlock answered, kissing along John's jaw and trying very hard to drag his mouth back into a kiss.

John was relieved that Sherlock wasn't a virgin, but he still felt the man's eager inexperience in every touch. It was enormously arousing, but it also made John cautious.

"John, for God's sake, get down here," Sherlock said impatiently, thrusting up his hips and trying harder to drag John to him.

"If we start rutting again, I won't be able to stop," John said, bracing his arms and thighs and resisting the pull. He placed very careful kisses on Sherlock's bruised neck.

Sherlock growled in annoyance. "It's called frottage. Problem?"

John laughed. "Only that I'll never have a chance to make love to you again whilst you're blue. I want to savour it."

John's words seemed to trigger something in Sherlock. He sort of melted, his impatience vanishing and a heavy, vulnerable look coming over his features.

"What is it?" John asked, concerned.

Sherlock looked away. "I want this. Very much. But… I don't want to lose you as a friend. I couldn't."

John dipped his head and kissed his clavicle, the hollow at the base of his throat. "Never," John said.

"You'll regret this tomorrow. When I'm not blue. When did you acquire a kink for blue, by the way?"

John giggled. "It has nothing to do with you being blue, you nutter. You were practically naked in your costume. The blue just made it… a highly decorative sort of naked." He kissed Sherlock chest and licked a nipple, causing Sherlock to arch off the bed with a hiss.

"Excuse me if I don't take your word for it," Sherlock said, breathing hard. "I think a study in blue is called for."

"If it involves arousing me repeatedly, I'm all for it." John bit lightly at the other nipple and then kissed his way down Sherlock's abdomen. But he could still feel the tension and vulnerability in Sherlock's body.

John reluctantly gave up his southern-ward trail and moved up to kiss Sherlock on the mouth. Under the administrations of his tongue, he felt Sherlock's hunger reignite and this time when he tugged John gave in, lying heavily on top him. The solidity and warmth of Sherlock's body beneath him felt better than he could have imagined, but he resisted the urge to rut. This was too important. He held Sherlock's head with both hands and pulled up to look him in the eye.

"I guess you missed it, but I had my sexual identity crisis several months ago, when I realised that I wanted you like oxygen. I'm in this all the way."

"I didn't miss it," Sherlock said, a small frown behind his eyes. "I just wasn't sure… if your conclusions were really quite solid."

Now John did press down, pushing his cock against Sherlock's hip. "Feels pretty solid to me," he said, with a pant. "Hell, you could build a convention centre on it."

"_John_," Sherlock complained with a huff, but at the same time he slid his hands to John's arse and pulled him in tight, arching his hips up to press himself against John's belly.

John was suddenly very, very conscious of where he was and whose entirely naked form was pressed beneath him, of his own want and of Sherlock's, hot and undeniable against the slight softness of John's stomach. He groaned and kissed Sherlock deep and dirty. Sherlock squirmed beneath him, aligning them more closely. He felt the tip of Sherlock's cock rub back and forth underneath the head of his own in that oh-so-sensitive spot that always drove him mad. _Oh, good bloody night._

John broke the kiss with a gasp. "Right. Frottage it is. Anyway, probably best to kept it simple, seeing as I've never been with a bloke before."

Sherlock froze. "Oh. This is too much for you. Feeling my…. this position. You could lie back and I could –"

John put his hand over Sherlock's mouth. "_No_," he said, firmly. "No. You feel amazing, and I have nothing but a deeply-seated, ravenous _hunger _for your cock. In fact, I bonded with it earlier tonight, so I would appreciate you not disparaging it. Now if you have some lotion handy, I think that would make things slide together in quite an extraordinary way down there, don't you?"

Sherlock's eyes grew even darker and went half-lidded with lust. His breath panted over John's hand. His eyes flicked to the bedside table.

"Lovely." John released Sherlock's mouth and slanted his body towards the edge of the bed, opening the drawer and tossing things hither and yon until he found the tube.

"This is the right one?" He waved it at Sherlock. "Doesn't have flesh-eating bacteria in it or anything?"

"John, why on earth would I— _oh_."

John squirted lotion over Sherlock's cock and stomach and rubbed it in with a doctor's firm, competent stoke. He slicked his hand over Sherlock's lower stomach, around his cock with a teasing twist and straight down over his balls and between his legs in a hot, wet, firm glide.

"Oh my God," Sherlock said in a quiet voice.

"Hang on," said John, slicking himself up. Then he tossed the tube aside and lay back down, placing his cock right over Sherlock's as he lowered his weight. "_Jesus_, this is good. I'm not going to last long," he said shakily, on the first delicious thrust.

Sherlock just whimpered and ran his palms down to grasp John's arse. He wrapped his long legs around John's waist, and the tilt of his hips brought their balls in contact, pressed his cock more firmly into John's.

"Oh, Christ," John moaned. "This is… Oh, I quite like this."

"I'm never wrong," Sherlock said. "Now kiss me."

John did. He tried to make it last, stopping his thrusts when things got too intense and just rocking, slightly, so slightly, because it felt too good to entirely freeze, and then starting up again with long, slick stokes. Sherlock's mouth never left his, sometimes hungry and sometimes open and slack while all focus was on the sensations they were mutually creating. His palms were warm on John's arse, squeezing and trying to control (naturally) John's thrusts. But John held to his own rhythm, relishing the squeeze and the push and the slide, the tactile pleasure of Sherlock throbbing against him, _good lord_. And then he slipped to one side a bit and could feel his tip pushing against the right side of Sherlock's crown and Sherlock locked up, his legs tightening on John's waist. An unearthly moan emerged from somewhere deep in his chest. _Ah, must remember that spot_, John thought. And suddenly, he wanted it _now_. He rode the position with fast thrusts, pulling his lips from Sherlock's to look into his eyes.

"Wanna see you come," he said.

Sherlock's mouth was open, his eyes wide as he panted. Then he threw his head back and gave a long, guttural groan. John could feel Sherlock's cock grow even harder and stiffer for one brief moment before it pulsed and the hot spill of semen spread between them.

"_John_," Sherlock choked out as he rode the contractions.

"Fuck, you're amazing," John said in wonder, and he thrust fast and hard for another few seconds before his own orgasm struck. It was so strong he bent forward, digging his face into the pillows next to Sherlock's head. "Oh! Oh, God. Sherlock…."

**& C &**

The next morning, John and Sherlock were both freshly showered and sitting at the table having breakfast and reading the paper when Mycroft stopped by. Fortunately the elder Holmes was back to his human façade.

"Cuppa, Mycroft?" John said, putting down the sports section.

"No thank you, John," Mycroft smirked. "Do save your energy."

John shot him a look and blushed. Sherlock said nothing, seemingly absorbed in the obituaries, a piece of toast in one hand.

"I see you've managed to get my brother to eat. Well done." Mycroft commented.

Sherlock glared at him, took a big bite of toast and chewed.

"Thank you for your help last night," John said. "I assume it was down to you that I didn't sleep in jail."

"Oh, not I," Mycroft crooned. "Though naturally I would have done all I could. I understand you saved my brother's life. _Again._ No, the DI seems quite fond of you."

The glare Sherlock had given him but a few minutes prior had nothing on_ this _glare, which seemed to emerge from the pits of hell. Mycroft looked smug.

"Sherlock. How pleasant to see you looking less cerulean, though a spot of color always looks well on you. You're so very pale."

Sherlock snapped his paper and returned to scanning the obits. "John's still got some of the blue on him. Don't think he'll show it to you though."

"Do I?" John asked curiously. "I thought I got it all off."

"Inner right thigh," Sherlock said, turning a page.

"Ah. Good to know."

Mycroft cleared his throat. "If you mean to shock me with the fact that you've been intimate, I assure you, it's not news to me. In fact, I couldn't be happier. Sherlock, don 't screw it up."

Sherlock huffed. "Aren't you supposed to say that to _him_? You're _my_ brother."

"Indeed." Mycroft turned to the good doctor. "John? Don't screw it up." Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. _ I really mean it._

John smiled happily. "Don't intend to."

"Good. Now, as to the real reason I stopped by… I'm inviting you to a Christmas party."

"No," Sherlock said without looking up.

"Hear me out, please. It's for a case. You see, for the past three years, someone dressed as a certain holiday figure has been breaking into houses on Christmas eve and terrorizing and robbing the victims. I have good reason to believe this… person… might be drawn to this Christmas party. Now –"

At the same time, John and Sherlock both gave a vehement "No!"

Before Mycroft could rally an argument, Lestrade came in through the door, his face red. He had a report in his hand which he waved around as if dispelling fumes. "Sherlock! How the bloody hell and I supposed to explain this?"

"And what is that, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft turns, looking at him curiously.

Lestrade seemed taken aback by Mycroft's presence. "Um…" he said.

John looked at Lestrade innocently. "What is it, Greg?"

Sherlock put down the obits and picked up the front page. He spoke in a bone dry voice. "Yes, what is it Lestrade? Please do tell my older brother, Mycroft, what you're on about?"

"Er…" Lestrade looked down at the report, then at the ceiling.

"Detective Inspector Lestrade," Mycroft purred, " for some time I've thought it would be prudent to get to know you better, given how important you've become in my brother's life. Perhaps you'd allow to me take you out for coffee? And we could discuss the… results of your lab test. Hm?"

Lestrade gaped at Mycroft wordlessly for a moment, a blush blossoming across his upper cheeks. "Yeah. All right."

Mycroft smiled. "Fine. I'll meet you downstairs, shall I? Sherlock. John." Mcroft gave them each a nod and strolled out, his hip swaying just a little bit more than normal.

Lestrade watched him go. When he was sure it was safe, he turned to hiss at Sherlock. "If I ever find something like this again, I swear to God, Sherlock... And I expect more from you, John. It's a _crime scene_! Not a comedy club and not a bloody bedroom!"

"Well, it _was _a bedroom, actually," John said ironically, taking a sip of tea.

"Quite a nice one, in fact," Sherlock said, turning another page. "Roomy bed." A beat passed. "Underneath," he added with clipped precision.

Lestrade made a strangled noise and left the flat. John and Sherlock looked at each other and laughed.

**AUTHOR'S NOTE:**

**THE END, and all that. Happy Halloween, you lovely johnlock fans. Hurricaine Sandy is headed my way, so it looks like it will be a good night for telling stories in the dark. My blog on tumblr is .com. Do stop by!**


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